Category Archives: Teenage / Young Sex
For those familiar with this blog or from reading the title alone, it may come as a shock to discover I was celibate for two years. Now obviously my definition of celibate may vary from the next persons. For me blow jobs and anal sex were fine, but vaginal penetration was a big no no! So I claim to have been celibate for two years, but (having revealed my personal understanding and application of the term) some might just say I didn’t have ‘traditional’ or ‘formal’ sex for 730 days.
What, you may ask, causes someone to embark on a two year period of self-imposed celibacy? Sadly, like much of this blog, I don’t remember his name. But I do remember him and the night very clearly.
My brother’s best friend was visiting London from Amsterdam at the time. Having known him since I was four, it was only natural we hang out. He was going through his homosexual phase at the time (he’s married now with three kids) so we ended up in Soho at some hip and happening gay club. If memory serves correctly, we were joined by a few friends from my workplace – also gay (you do tend to find a lot of very pretty gay boys working front of house in theatres as they pay for dance and fashion college – a gross generalization but, hand on heart, that was my experience).
I started by scouting the place for somewhere we could sit and deciding which room had the best music. On reflection, it’s lucky my work buddies were there because I didn’t feel wholly responsible for entertaining my childhood friend. With the Dutch branch of his international accounting firm paying out for a swish hotel in Central London, he was on the prowl to take home a visitor– thus was independent in action anyway.
We had the same objective really. We both wanted a man for the night. My brother’s bezzie didn’t achieve said objective and I’m told he went home alone. I didn’t fare much better. I wanted a man for the night, but I got a boy.
His name was on the tip of my tongue there as I was typing, but still it eludes me.
In England, there’s this jokey, crass chat-up line people tend to use ironically (if they used it seriously they would be asking for a drink to be thrown over them).
Having done my first walkabout of the club, a group of young, dishy, Irish boys entered. I have to say they reeked of the scent of clueless, drunken, hormonal, straight, male tourists – probably on a bachelor’s weekend. They’d paid the entrance fee and the cloakroom attendant, then spun around to see a distinct absence (certainly an exceptionally low ratio in relation to the male gender) of women.
The tiniest guy cut his losses quick when he saw me and uttered that chat up line – ‘Grab your coat love, you’ve pulled.’
He was undeniably cute and very much my type; twinkling Irish blue eyes and the spiked black hair (as was the fashion back then). Truth was if I was hankering for a good seeing to that night (which I was) it was better to take what was offered to me on a plate earlier on if satisfactory, than spending the night hunting down the odd straight man or cajoling a sexually confused youth back to the heterosexual team for a few hours in the vain hope they’d be hotter than my earlier proposition.
‘Sure,’ I replied, handing the attendant my ticket and retrieving my faux leather biker jacket.
His eyes were like saucers in astonishment at my obedient response to his request.
‘Ummm. Do you live near here?’ he asked, suddenly concerned.
He definitely was a tourist. I could see the panic in his face at the fear of his poor geography dramatically separating him from the party of boys and resulting in a missed flight home on Sunday.
‘I’m literally a ten minute walk down the road,’ I assured.
It was true. I was fortunate enough to live at the YWCA opposite the British Museum, just off London’s notorious Oxford Street.
He was already in the process of retrieving his coat, so his dick had clearly dictated and committed to a decision. It was merely logic and common sense reducing the speed at which he moved. Now in slow motion, a friend (who seemed thrilled his mate had scored) informed me of the name of the hotel they were staying at with. Without a word of a lie it was actually on my street. Fate appeared to want us together that night.
Awash with maternal instincts and generally being a good girl at heart, I promised to walk him back to the hotel. His friends departed quickly to assess what was going to be a very disappointing nightclub for them, leaving me with the gorgeous leprechaun. My brazen, bold, Australian, overly sexual attitude made him cautious.
‘Should we be doing this?’ he enquired. ‘I mean we haven’t even kissed.’
‘So kiss me. If you like it, escort me home. If you don’t, return to your friends.’
Of course the minute our lips touched, the burning desire between us melded our mouths and our tongues were diving down each other’s throat. We were thrilled a sexual chemistry existed and excited we were both going to get laid.
He was probably one of the sweetest boys I’ve ever encountered. When we got back to mine (which required me sneaking him past security as men weren’t allowed in after 11pm – that’s what being part of the Young Women’s Christian association is all about) we didn’t tear each other’s clothes off, fuck hastily and bid each other farewell.
The approach was slow and relaxed. I actually felt safe with him. His bashfulness and tender touch was comforting. As we know I didn’t lose my virginity till I was 21 and my sex life kind of snowballed out of control from there on. I’d missed out on teenage love. Kissing for hours. Tentative hands sliding under my top, hoping to touch the soft, pale flesh of my breasts. Turning the lights off to undress in the dark.
In some ways, irrespective of the numbers I’d clocked up in (and out) of the bedroom, I was the inexperienced one, although I was at least seven years his senior. I was assertive – pushy perhaps?- and initiated the hand on his cock. THAT is where it all fell apart.
The next thing I know, the lad was in tears, I was scrabbling to turn a lamp on and ascertain what mammoth social faux pas I’d just made. It all tumbled out. He was barely eighteen, he’d got a girl pregnant and now had to marry her – he was a Catholic, I was a Catholic…so I understood the score on that one.
I have to say when someone blurts that out and your naked with a dripping pussy, it’s very difficult to search your mind for any witty comeback; let alone an authentic platitude. All I could do was hug him and kiss away his tears.
It was a bachelor’s party and he was the groom to be. Being so immersed in his religion this was his last night of freedom and he’d committed himself to being faithful to his wife and … and he didn’t want to be. (Thankfully the priests at my Dad’s school were all bastards and the nuns at my Mum’s school were all bitches so as a family of Catholics they steered cleared of the church. Apart from Christmas Eve, when Mum decided she was a Catholic keen to pay tribute to the birth of our saviour and my merry Dad decided he wanted a good old sing song at midnight mass – hence while I sympathised with, I didn’t really empathise with him.) He was a teenager. He hadn’t lived. He hadn’t loved. All he’d done was fuck a girl and get her pregnant – from here on end his life was all mapped out. As far as he could perceive, there no free will – no more chances or choices in respect of his dreams and aspirations that otherwise may had presented themselves to him had he not just signed his life away to a loveless marriage and early fatherhood.
I think it was the sincerity that pinched my heart. It was probably the first time (outside of my parents) that I’d met a decent guy committed to his wife – unhappily admittedly (unlike my parents), but taking the responsibility on his boyish shoulders with good grace and an admirable dogged determination to be a proper husband and excellent father.
I wanted him. At least I wanted someone with those qualities. I didn’t want any more random one night stands; where it was all too evident before the fucking began that by the end of the night’s proceedings I was to be cast aside as nothing more than a arbitrary shag in someone else’s life story. In that moment, I realized the only way I was going to get a guy like the one in front of me, was to stop being a slut and treating myself disrespectfully. I didn’t respect myself, why would any of the numerous men I fucked respect me or see me as girlfriend or possible wife material?
No, in that instant, I knew. I became enlightened. There would be no more sex (vaginal penetration to reiterate) until I found my Mr Right.
So what happened after my epiphany?
What do you think?
He was a hormonal, eighteen year old sitting opposite a voluptuous Botticelli.
I think his exact words were ‘if you can get it hard, I’d love to fuck you.’
Hey, there’s nothing I like more than a challenge and he’d thrown the gauntlet down. My husband will attest to the wonders of my mouth in respect of performing a blow job. I knew I’d be getting fucked that Saturday night.
Average in length, his girth was somewhat disappointing. Thicker than a chopstick but slimmer than a Double A battery, it was like wanking and sucking on a pen. But my magic hands adeptly worked his flaccid shaft to an impressive rod. For the first time in a long time I indulged in vanilla style sex.
Spreading my legs, he climbed between and slipped his pencil dick in my slit. Okay I wasn’t thinking ‘give it to me baby and pound me till I scream’ (he hadn’t the tools for that). But the rhythmic sensation of his cock gliding effortlessly in and out of my pussy was, in its own way, beautiful. As he entered me repeatedly, he maintained eye contact. He dipped his head to kiss me with closed eyes. Hands underneath my armpits, I could see the youthful sinewy muscles in his leanness and the six-pack on display was to die for.
In an intimate gesture – most unlike me – not only did I remain silent throughout sex, but my arms went round his back to his shoulder blades to pull him closer to me. I loved the feel of his sweat, sticking his bare chest to my breasts and tummy.
My hand snaked to his neck to intensify the kiss, and I could literally feel his heartbeat quicken. Indicating a role reversal, he read the body language and rolled on his back. It might have been thin, but it was rock hard and standing to attention as only a young man’s cock can. Straddling him was easy, sinking onto the cock even easier. I probably should’ve rode him like a young stallion needing to be broken in, but I rocked slowly on his prick, making sure I didn’t ruin the spell by breaking eye contact in some lustful, dirty desire. As I lowered to kiss him, his hands went straight to my breasts. He was squeezing them as if they were stress balls and he was a Wall Street investment Banker. At that particular time I wasn’t too keen on men lavishing attention on my breasts. I found it slightly disturbing that he was imbibing as much as he could of one breast into his mouth to suckle, as I continued bobbing up and down on his dick.
There was an ethereal atmosphere in the room that threatened to freeze the moment forever, which I don’t think either of us would’ve been dissatisfied with – but I knew he wasn’t the one for me. I couldn’t afford to let time stand still, because he was a boy that would mature into a good man and fulfil the obligations his current predicament imposed.
I had to break the spell. I chose to do it by faking an orgasm. I rationalised that if he actually didn’t ever sleep with another woman again, he’d recall his last sexual encounter with a stranger as one where he turned in an A star performance resulting in the older woman squealing in ecstasy like a porn star. Plus, by acting like Jenna Jameson, my panting and moaning bought him to the brink – where I swiftly bounded off before he discovered himself fathering a second child.
He left. I didn’t even have to walk him to his hotel. He could actually see the sign from my front steps. There was an awful awkwardness. The kind of silence when you know you’ve met someone special, but they started leaving you the minute you were introduced. All we could do was kiss, hold each other and accept there was no redemption for us – no opportunity to explore our connection further (certainly not in this lifetime).
I felt bad for him when he’d gone. I felt good for myself. I’d been blessed with some insight as to how good sex would be if I was in a relationship. For the first time in a long time, I was ready to go steady. I didn’t want to be a slag. I didn’t want to be a good time girl. I wanted to swallow my fear. I wanted to put myself out there. It was essential I uncover if I possessed the qualities that made me attractive to the opposite sex. It was critical I discover if, in all my fucked-up-ness, ample character and substance existed in my soul for someone to take a chance on me as potential relationship material.
Turns out I did.
Playing With Young Gay Love – What Cougar can turn down a beautiful teen whatever his alleged sexuality?
There comes a time in every single woman’s life when she has the thought on a mad night out ‘I’m too old for this.’
It happened to me not long before my thirtieth birthday. After a troublesome few years, I’d scuttled home to Australia to rest, recuperate, mend a broken heart and lose nine stone. I looked (and this is arrogant) hot when I returned. Dropping from a size 28 to a size 12 was hard work, but I must’ve looked good because when I scored a job in a music company I was pretty much the talk of the room. The loud brash exceptionally good-looking Australian. I’m not sure how true that last sentence was but in my mind, I like to think that’s how I was perceived. If anything I had the confidence to think that way and maybe that rubbed off.
Anyway the music company I worked for (at that time) was very hip and cool. It’s a tough industry to crack, even a shitty administration job like I had. Our floor was pretty much full of school leavers on their first jobs, or dreamers like me that worked their for shit money but a great company culture as we planned on how we’d get our big break in music/writing/acting/performing/dancing etc.
Because about ten of us joined at the same time, we were sent on all the training courses together. Enter D (I can’t mention this individual by name because he’s a model and I’m not sure how relevant his sexuality is to his career or if this confession would impact on it in any way and come back to bite me in the arse so to speak). D was truly beautiful. He was Irish and had only just turned 18. He’d done a modelling campaign for ‘Next’ I think and also a massive exclusive photo shoot for a big magazine like GQ or the likes for a designer label along the lines of Armani of Dolce and Gabanna. Talent spotted for both jobs, he’d headed to London on the premise that his modelling career would go from strength to strength and he’d become a professional. He wasn’t a classic catwalk model, because he didn’t have the height. He was five foot nine which immediately restricted his career. He was striking to look at. Not traditionally handsome, he was pale and slim, but had perfect symmetrical bone structure in a very lean, chiselled way. He had thick dark brown hair reached the collar of is short and his styled fringe was perfect to droop in his eyes so he could flick it out flirtatiously when required. All that combines with the eyes greener than the foliage of a tree, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Eye-catching he was. I could see why he was spotted by agents, but there would be those that would refer to him as ‘ugly-beautiful’ so unusual was his appearance.
Apart from the modelling opportunities, I suspect being in one of the cities the embraced homosexuality (especially as out office was in Soho) held additional appeal. Even the younger women in the office weren’t overly familiar with how to conduct a friendship with a young gay male. Mostly your first gay friendships end up with you having a crush on him. After the first one is out-of-the-way you realize nothing can come of it sexually and instead of instinctively viewing them as ‘potential father’s’ An experienced fag hag from way back, I was more than happy to take him under my wing. Having been out of the entertainment industry for nearly two years, to re-enter the gay scene was a blessing for me. I was happy, funny, confident and loving being back with a very young, very new gay best friend. He was relived to have someone who knew their way around the scene and was willing to accompany him on all kinds of outings. I also acted as a chaperone taking him to open castings. Perhaps the most important time my presence was required when we went to one ‘modelling’ agency that was trying to talk him into working in gay-porn. Not on my watch!
Crushingly as I told my oldest and closest gay friend of D (who he chose to refer to as my ‘new gay puppy’) his reckoning was that D was attracted to my maternal side. Huffily I refused to accept this. I was still hip and down with the kids.
D was living with an American guy he’d met online. Turned out cyber-space didn’t translate to the real world. The American insisted D come and live with him but after a month was retracting the offer. With no money to pay rent, D refused to budge and somehow they managed through tearing each others heart-strings as they went.
In 2007, when McFly were at their peak, they were playing a gig at the old G-A-Y by Tottenham Court Road. There was quite a débâcle at the time because Jeremy Joseph was being an out and out prick, refusing to let young groups of girls attend the concert. I don’t agree with ostracising anyone on any grounds, but in fairness to the repulsive Mr Joseph, screaming teenagers did kill the ambience of G-A-Y considerably. It wasn’t their enthusiasm that was the problem, rather their reaction to being in an ‘Oh My God’ gay club. Looking at the men (and myself who perhaps appeared lesbionic wit stereotypical short hair) they were gaping like they’d discovered aliens. That did piss me of because it does kill the vibe, when straight girls are looking at regular patrons like they’ve gone safari with the wild willy lovers.
Anyway, D decided that he, his flat mate and a visiting friend should go see the concert with me. How could I refuse his irresistible green eyes? I agreed and meeting them high I was as mellow as they come. Having bought our tickets thanks to D’s age we were checked. D bought his passport to confirm he was eighteen and we skipped passed the hordes of screaming girls begging to be let in.
All was going well in my knee-high boots and extraordinarily short dress. Until some old man was trying the moves on me. He was clearly gay but as he was facing a dry night I think he adopted the mentality that every hole is a goal. Bumping and grinding against me, I pushed him away gently. The second time a little more forcefully but with a smile. The third time I snapped and told him to get away from me. He then proceeded to throw a pint on me. The pint drenched me from head to toe, I could feel my make up sticky and probably likely to be running down my face and my dressed reeked of beer. It was only midnight and we were due to be out till 6am, so I was less than impressed with his actions. Fortunately so to was the Australian gay guy behind me who caught a few splashed himself. He and his boyfriend turned on the guy, to chastise him for his behaviour towards a woman and fellow county.
I did my best to calm everyone down and try to drop it (after all I was the one who’d be suffering all night) but D’s flatmate decided to find him and fill him in on the event that had taken over. Leaping down from the stage where he’d been dancing, he stormed up to the repugnant man in his late 60s early seventies and was shouting why he’d done it. I grabbed D to draw him back and tell him not to worry and let it spoil out evening, but he was furious demanding to know what the guys problem was. In an instance, the seventy year old gay guy landed a quick jab and caught D on the cheek.
It was my turn to rage. D was reeling but still upright. Seeing only red I grabbed the guy by the shirt cussing and swearing and telling him I was going to fucking kill him for hitting a kid like that. The old man pushed me off, the Australian gay guy saw it. His partner steadied me on my four-inch heels and the Australian then started rough-housing. Amongst all this action was a significant proportion of screaming young teens looking shocked at the aggression and violence taking place on the dance floor. Don’t blame the boys, girls – I was equally up for a fight.
Security entered to split everyone up. The Australian was defending our part but D, myself and the old codger were ejected from the main club. Discussing the issue with management, I could hear McFly preparing to come on stage and realized we were going to miss the highlight and purpose of our evening. D obviously thought the same because he put on a spectacular scene about me being his chaperone for a massive photo-shoot with Versace and now he’d most likely lose the job because of the bruise. He demanded to know what they’d do about and was insisting he wanted names to pass on to his employer and that kind of empty but potentially dangerous threats. I have to say, is efforts were so strong I was inclined to suggest acting if the modelling didn’t work out. The next thing I know security have their arms on us dragging us through the absolutely jammed club to get us to the front of the stage to watch McFly. Yes seeing McFly up close and personal was a great experience, no having an entire club HATE you for a public display of favouritism when many had queued for their positions wasn’t fun.
With thousands of evil eyes glaring at me, my liquid foundation running and exuding an aroma of beer, there and ten instead of seeing it as fun or an adventure I thought ‘I’m too old for this!’ – I was.
That was my last night out with D and his friends. My socializing and love of drama was diminishing the closer I got to thirty. We still spent whatever time we could at work and remained close.
One morning I get a call from his asking if I’ll come round and help him put his tanning lotion on. It was a Sunday and I had no inclination leave the bed or my TV, but our night out hadn’t been his fault so being seen to punish him was unfair.
Accommodating himself in the nearly redeveloped area of Canary Wharf the flat, within which he was staying rent free until the American online ex could boot him out, was out of this world in terms of size, layout, the quality and modern sleek urban look of the place. I could fully understand why he didn’t leave. The view, the facilities on offer and high tech gadgets made it a playground for anyone who loved luxury and opulence.
I chatted to his mates who had been out the previous night and were debating on whether or not to head out again. D declined the offer of drugs, as did I, because he was a clean living guy that loved life not alcohol and drugs.
Entering his bedroom, he stripped off the his shirt. Even though I’d lost weight he remained rake thin. Squeezing the lotion in my hand and then rubbing his torso had me flummoxed. He was a friend. This was a normal thing to do. But no one can deny a physical appreciation of another human being whatever their sex life is like behind private doors.
It was hard not to be turned on when I was running my hands all over his him. Shoulder blades protruding, his back was lengthy with a straight spine and no hair whatsoever. Tackling the front of him was worse because we had to make eye contact and conversation. Aimless chit chatter, all the while I’m caressing this chest and washboard stomach that was an eight pack as opposed to a six pack.
Having finished, he removed his jeans for me to do his legs as well. Running my hands up and down the length of his chicken-like legs, was too intimate and strange given the length (five months) and nature (platonic) of our relationship. He obviously thought the same because when I dared to raise my eyes to the white tight legged boxers I could see he was erect. I could also see he had a proper porno cock. My head was telling me one thing, my hormones another.
Whether I was drooling, I’m not sure, but seeing my unsubtle examination of the package with one hand he pulled down the front of is boxers slowly. Bare chested and pubescent in appearance, he looked like a little boy. The thatch of hair from naval to crotch was non-existent. He was teasing me deliberately, moving his hand down his stomach, exposing the flesh leading to his pubic region slowly. The bush may have been untamed, but it wasn’t like he needed to trim the area to make him look ‘bigger’ (as some men chose to. Releasing a seven and a half-inch wonder, my eyes watered and I got was soaking wet in an instant, I could feel it on my knickers.
‘You can suck me off if you want,’ he said simply.
I wanted to, my god how I wanted to. Licking from the base of his cock to the head I’d run out of saliva. I couldn’t just use my tongue to lube him for my mouth, I’d have to spit in my hand to work the shaft. I already knew due to the thickness of his bratwurst-shaped penis, I’d struggle to swallow much of him. He was young enough not to exercise any caution or consider the repercussions on our friendship if this was to go ahead.
Standing up he decided to remind me he had fucked women before and had a girlfriend in Ireland who he slept with regularly before outing himself on arrival in London.
I always swore never to sleep with friends, but was he a friend or just a work college I clicked with.
‘Fuck it,’ I thought and undid my jeans and dropped my drawers. D closed and locked the door to his bedroom. Without further ado he bent me over the bed. He was so slight I wasn’t sure where his strength emanated from. As I felt my feet involuntarily moving to adopt a stance to allow him to penetrate me, I did think it prudent I raise the issue of protection. Unfazed by the request, I was taken aback he had such a supply of them in his bedside drawer. Breaking the first one in his urgency to get laid, he retrieved another within seconds. Arms resting on the bed, pussy dripping I was ready to go.
No warning, just a sharp thrust to penetrate me. The shock of the size of the fat cock had me panting, gripping the bed and riding the length down to bump on his pubic region. When I felt my pussy lips springing off from his pubic hair I knew I was imbibing his full length.
It was hard, fast, rough and ready. I liked it. There was no affection or caressing of areas that differentiated the two of us physically in accordance to our gender. My clit and breasts were neglected. This wasn’t a major problem for me, because with my head planted firmly on the mattress I could use one hand to reach my climax anyway.
Rubbing my bud, it was easy to bring myself to the brink and go with the flow. D on the other hand wasn’t as fluid in movements as myself. He happily pumped and pounded my cunt, relishing in delight at my grunts as he shoved deep in me. Slamming into me with such force that the bed was moving round the room with me, I guess the pneumatic drill approach may well be best if you’re having sex with someone you wouldn’t normally. I support this statement with the fact that he came, because he came very speedily. Groaning loudly, I was in no doubt his collection of friends knew exactly what was going on.
Suffice to say my departure was imminent. I left with a wave and have a nice night. Within a couple of weeks I’m pleased to say the American managed to boot D out. With no savings, he was forced to return to Ireland, ensuring his only option was to skive off his parents. I don’t mean it in a horrible way, BUT as fun as it is to hold your hand up and say I’m twenty-nine and I fucked a teenage gay model the aftermath and awkwardness did mean losing a friend. The nature of the friendship changed irrevocably. We’d gone down a path we shouldn’t have. It affirmed my belief that you shouldn’t sleep with friends. It affirmed me that as a highly sexed woman, I still had it even with the most difficult erotic scenarios.
In fact, D’s departure from London had occurred before the rub on tanning lotion finally came off. A heavily tanned arse (brown bum) conflicting with my pale and porcelain skin was a major passion killer. I won’t lie to you. There a significant price to pay for carrying out a little taboo barely legal gay sex. I couldn’t risk sexual rejection, thus was obligated to put my sex life on hold while the tanning lotion faded. For the one woman wanting the one hundred dicks it was a daunting process.
There are three things you need to know about me before I enlighten and possibly enrage you with the truth about love as it see it.
My husband’s name is David;
The most romantic moment of my life is linked with a boy named Romeo.
It’s possible you may conject on the significance of you the above or why I’m telling you this. That my heart was broken by Romeo and I ‘settled’ for David? That Romeo died and again I ‘settled’ for David? That fate tore me away from Romeo and – guess what? – I ‘settled’ for David.
Please let me put your mind at rest. I’ve never ‘settled’ for anyone, least of all my husband. David is the love of my life. I knew the minute I laid eyes on him he’d be the man with whom I’d spend the rest of my life.
He is romantic and completely devoted to me. But that hat doesn’t alter the fact the most romantic, the most powerful moment of my life was shared with Romeo. If when I die life flashes before me, I swear my most vivid memory will be that of Romeo, or, rather, Romeo and me.
I’m no different to the majority women my age, which is mid-thirties. I was, like most others raised on a diet of trashy romantic novels handed down by my mother and culturally saturated in filmic rom-coms where the Grand Gesture comes – as it inevitably does – when the heroine gets Mr. Right.
TV shows like ‘Sex and the City’ have a lot to answer for. If you yourself a woman in her mid-thirties and continue to hold that dream close to your heart, I hate bursting your bubble but you could be waiting another thirty years; you could be waiting your whole life for something that will never come. The promise we’ve been fed is a lie. If you set your standards up there with Bridget Jones or Carrie Bradshaw be prepared for heartache and devastation – although I truly hope your knight in shining armour rushes in to save you and keep you safe, secure and happy for the rest of your living years.
Brand me a cynic. I prefer the term realist. When you’ve fucked over one hundred men, one tends to acquire a degree of experience from which to draw in matters of heart and boudoir.
I’m not sure what people think the instant they hear the word ‘London’. It obviously depends on your age, location and direct experience of the city. Some may remember the glory days of Brit Pop in the mid 90s, others the current British invasion of manufactured bands like One Direction and The Wanted. Then again people may thing of the ‘Swinging Sixties’ and Carnaby Street. Others, more removed from the Capital, may imagine The Queen, St Paul’s or a red double decker bus. Maybe the Queen on a bus going past the cathedral, I really don’t know particularly care.
Having spent fifteen years in the place, let me recount a darker side to few will ever encounter. The majority – including for a while time myself – endure that awful grind of nine-to-five, spending what free time they have enjoying the delights of London’s vibrant nightlife. It is those working to create the vibrant and diverse scene of London at night who inhabit a completely different world to those ordinary people living ordinary lives.
I left a routine office job to immerse myself in Theatre-land, becoming duty manager of the small but (to us) perfectly formed Players’ Theatre underneath the Arches at Charing Cross. Sadly it went bust, but that’s story alone in itself. Visit it now and you’ll still find the premises buried in the dim, cobbled backwater of Villiers Street which forms the Station’s foundation..
Nowadays though, having been renamed, re-branded and renovated it has become a dull, lifeless place, unimaginatively named ‘The Charing Cross Theatre’. When I managed it, it had gone sixty-five years without the smallest refurbishment. The box office literally seated one person; you couldn’t swing a cat (and we actually had a theatre cat who on occasion helped himself to fish in the kitchen prior to restaurant staff started their shift and if caught was punished by the head chef who somehow did find enough space to swing him).
The carpets and walls were a dark plush red. The upstairs reception was furnished with couches with fraying covers and rickety wooden chairs and tables begging for someone fat to break them so a personal injury claim could be made on the venue’s insurance. The small bar was awkward to navigate in because of the massive supporting pole standing bang in the centre of this tiny space. The two hundred-seat auditorium retained its original red and gold decore with similarly-coloured and incredibly cheap-looking tables and seats. The basement toilets were permanently blocked threatening to flood with a single wrong flush.
The theatre itself was sweet. And diminutive to say the least, it included a minuscule balcony and two dinky boxes. A bar at the rear and the little wooden tables between seats allowed patrons to eat and drink as they watched the show.
The walls were scattered with ancient paintings of Queen Victoria and black and white pictures of bygone stars of Victorian Music Hall. It was unique in its own dingy way holding (as most theatres do) years of secrets, and was run by an eight-five year old man who continued taking the stage for the full six nights a week we were open. He had white hair, a white goatee, moustache and no concept of Employment Law (I kind of liked this because it meant if I didn’t like a staff member or their performance was poor we’d instantly sack them without warning or the slightest official procedure).
There’s a rule of thumb in theatre: never run a performance if there are more actors on stage than audience in seats. Sadly this rule resulted in a lot of cancelled performances for us at the Player’s. Where did it all go wrong? Turns out as the theatre entered the 21st century, people no longer wanted Victorian Music Hall. The owner did his best to keep that most traditional of genres afloat but it was futile.
What went right? Mainly one thing – a bright spark working there had the idea of getting a late night licence and opening membership to all and any employees within Theatre-land, thus offering an intimate and in its way quite exclusive watering hole for when they themselves finished work. The location was perfect for the crowd of heavy drinkers toiling in heart of London’s West End. After the negligible audience trickled out of the Players’ 10.30pm, by eleven a throng of parched musicians, actors, dancers, sound and light technicians flooded in. That late night bar was the cash cow keeping that kept the theatre afloat.
I beheld many in time there and experienced much, but none so important as my genuine sexual awakening. I didn’t lose my virginity till I was twenty-one, by then I was that cock-hungry I was basically (and literally) sex-mad. Taking charge of a venue that stank of pheromones and was so charged with oestrogen and testosterone when I was twenty-three was the equivalent putting starved a kid in a candy shop and leaving her with no supervision. With the monstrous libido like mine, even I had my fill at the Player’s.
The hours were mental; 4pm to 4am six days a week. The upshot of these hostile and unimaginably exhausting hours was that both customers and work colleagues became my social circle de facto family. It was inevitable I’d eventually seek a semblance of romantic involvement – something maybe even permanent – with someone or another found there.
Trying to find staff to work those kinds of hours for less than the minimal wage was difficult. Of the five interviews arranged, Romeo was the only candidate who showed up so was therefore employed on the spot. He was from Albania with a strong grasp of English and previous bar experience so I figured he’d survive. On his advice I recruited his younger brother (a self-confessed rapist with poor English) and his cousin (an out and out racist who verbally abused our Polish restaurant staff). Sadly those particulars weren’t on their CVs when they signed their terms of employment.
My routine at the time was work, drinking and or fucking till 8am, home and bed till 3pm before starting over again. Because Romeo was one of the few full-time staff crew, we spent at least sixty hours a week together. You can’t fail to form a bond or mutual understanding working so closely for that length of time.
We were liberal with ‘after-work’ drinks. One night Romeo decided he’d invent new cocktails from the array of spirits behind the bar. By 7am our numbers had diminished to three; me, Romeo and my Gay Best Friend. As a youngster you know fewer (if any) limits. Actually you do, but you ignore them confident in your ability to recover.
Tequila was my undoing. One minute I was the life and soul of the party, the next I was by the disabled toilet heaving my guts up. Romeo and I were kissing, crumpled by the toilet door, lips locked, groping to remove each other’s clothes.
Gay Best Friend subtly announced his departure. For some reason which shall forever remain a mystery, he insisted I not walk him out and even forgot his usual goodnight hug and kiss.
Romeo was not as hygienic as my friend. Despite the unlocked theatre door immediately opposite the heaving and infamous gay nightclub ‘Heaven’, he pushed my skirt up, tearing away my tights went.
He wasn’t traditionally good looking but he had something. At five foot ten, he was incredibly lean with short cropped brown hair and the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever stared into. Being slim his stomach was rock hard and each muscle of his six-pack was prominent. His chest was solid, not bulky and the bone structure of his face was chiselled and masculine.
At 21, I thought of him as a baby, being two years younger than me, though I wasn’t body confident. Not that I was bad looking, with brown hair and brown eyes, set against a peaches and cream complexion. An ample bosom, and a perfect hour-glass figure, had I been six stone lighter people might have described me as stunning.
Having this lithe young man urgently removing items to access my cunt was extremely flattering. I liked him. I knew him and he knew me. I think that’s possibly what made him overlook the fact that I was never going to be the trophy girlfriend he desperately sought.
If you’d asked me back then, I’d have said the sex was ‘lust-driven’. Ask my friends who saw the bruises and bite marks I was often left with, they would have said ‘violent’. Romeo and I were impulsive, resolute to unite sexually physically to reflect our emotional and mental connection.
Having torn off my tights, pushed up the regulation black skirt from my ‘office’ suit and yanked my knickers aside, his hands gripped my knees spreading them wide. His fingers kneaded the soft white flesh of my womanly thighs as he worked up. I’d raised myself into a half sitting position to undo the belt of his uniform trousers.
He was keen on image and labels hence the tight-legged Calvin Klein boxers were unsurprising. He pushed hard on my shoulders forcing me down to the carpet. If I turned my head I could see – too close for comfort – the puddle of own vomit though I far too far gone to be bothered by merely by that. He shifted to shove his cock in me.
It wasn’t the best I’ve had as cocks go (or perhaps more accurately, come) – average in length but with no girth whatsoever. Having a tampon shoved up would have been more satisfying than his pencil-like dick. Sex though isn’t always about adjuncts and anatomy. Having someone thrust furiously inside you, with gritted teeth and a determined look in their eyes can be reward enough in itself.
He pounded hard. I loved the feel of him crashing his full length into me, his balls slamming against my splayed thighs. It wasn’t imaginative or original. It was animalistic, carnal in nature.
I loved that he was young and fit and hard and could power on for ages. The constant shafting of my slit rubbed the lips raw. It was as if he wanted to consume me. He lifted my ankles over his shoulders, then heaved me down onto his needy prick. He couldn’t get enough of himself into me. The penetration was as deep as it was going to get. He stopped grunting to study my face. It was if he was aware the leanness of him was expressed by the size of his dick and he wanted to grow a few inches longer and wider but couldn’t. It was rutting rather than love making but desire existed on both our parts.
Romeo went to get my sheer black top off. I could handle the ripped tights but I couldn’t afford to replace a torn blouse, thus removed it myself. I’m a C cup, which isn’t massive but pleases most men. I chose to wear black bras so the pale flesh of my breasts would spill over the cup. Romeo went to my breasts, took them in his mouth and suckled as if he was expecting milk. I started to squirm when he pinched my nipples between his teeth, then graduated to gulping my breasts in his mouth – biting hard. I found little pleasure in that.
It was about then Barbara the cleaner entered the building. We scarpered like two naughty kids from the theatre’s reception, fleeing to the back offices, frenziedly punching in the access code.
Once locked in safely, Romeo asked me to get to my knees and suck his cock. There was something in the demand that didn’t sit well with me. I somehow had a feeling he’d get off on the idea of reporting back to his family that ‘the boss’ had got to her knees to drink him dry.
To remind him I actually was boss, I pushed him into my private office to sit him on the edge of my desk. I kissed slowly and tenderly as I took his erection in hand to manoeuvre his skin and asked him to spit in my palm so I could lube him with his own saliva. Now it was a gentler scene. When I felt he’d calmed, I sat on my black leather office chair and spread his legs. It was only then I took him in my mouth. I refused to let him have the upper hand but I happy please him, though I noted didn’t reciprocate.
It wasn’t a demanding blow job, which given my lack of sobriety and sheer exhaustion from his unstoppable pounding, was a shame. It’s nice to gag on a cock. I have a serious oral fixation. To have something in my mouth akin to a straw as opposed to a bratwurst is boring. However fat girls do it better because they like having things in their mouths; we relish and respect food. I worked that cock like a chocolate finger easily working the entire thing in my mouth. I switched between hands and mouth and ended up inching him down till my face was buried in his pubic hair. The smell was sexy – like sweat and aftershave. I swallowed so the muscles in my throat massaged his prick. I released to breathe and appreciate the full view of him when he stood from the desk.
Completely naked Romeo was beautiful in way that only youth offers. His long legs were firm and sinewy, his stomach flat with prominent hip bones prominent. There wasn’t a hair on his chest, merely a small trail running to his tame pubic region. His buttocks were flawless and pert, the muscles visible as he pressed his pelvis forward for more work on his cock. I took him back in my lips, determined to let my mouth and tongue demonstrate how much I wanted him. I sucked hard, using my tongue in swirling circles. Occasionally I’d pull the foreskin back over the head then push my tongue underneath which had him groaning. My free hand cupped his balls, exerting a slight pressure before tugging them.
When he was close he withdrew his cock, put his hands on my small waist and spun me round to seat me on the desk. He reached under my knees, pulling me to the edge of the table. Reaching behind me, he pulled my hair hard, tipping my neck back and forcing me to hold back a scream. When he slid his rod in one last time he fucked hard, wrenching my hair so brutally my head hit a shelf. I threw him off and stood, only for him to grab my hair and drag me until I turned to face the desk once again. I knew exactly what he wanted and I wanted it too. To be dominated by someone earning less money than me, younger than me and someone who wasn’t my superior was the disciplinary fuck I so needed. Lowering my head to the desk by gripping my neck, I spread my legs waiting for his entry.
Entering me from behind, finally gave him the penetration we both craved. He forced my arse cheeks apart to get in as far as he could, rocking his hips fast and furiously. He pulled out to come purposely over my arse. I was highly irritated because he insisted on watching me wipe myself dry before dressing. The passion remained as we kissed deeply and angrily, resentfully acknowledging ‘we’ could never be and frustrated by the inevitability of it all.
We had sex a couple more times before calling it quits. He’d met some girl. To preserve our close friendship I accepted the state of affairs and returned to fucking regular bar punters.
On the eve of my twenty-fourth birthday Romeo and his brother Jimmy stayed back to drink and see in my birthday. Jimmy felt the need to divulge Romeo had strong feelings for me, which stung given his earlier, gentle rejection of any potential relationship. As always when the sun rose our secret world disappeared. The boys headed off to catch a train, I walked to the cab rank. As I waited, watching the stark orange skies of London dawn, I heard my name called. Romeo was sprinting towards me.
‘I’m glad you haven’t left. Thought I might’ve missed you,’ he said panting.
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘Sorell, I really like you. I think it could be much more than that. It’s only that I want to be with you. I had to tell you.’
After months of intimacy and what I wrote off as meaningless sex I felt my heart beat. He showed me the screen of his phone.
‘See here, that girl’s phone number?’
I nodded as he selected the delete option.
‘I’m deleting it. I wanted you to see me delete it because I want you to know I’m serious about us, about being with you and only you.’
I heard his brother call.
‘You better go.’
Without warning he put cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. As the kiss lengthened he pulled me closer as our tongues could entwine. I experienced only deep affection and possibility in his warm, moist lips.
‘Happy Birthday, Sorell.’
‘It is now.’
He kissed me again. I realised for the first time in twenty-four years I finally had a boyfriend. I was no longer a one-night-stand-slut unable to find a man or hold down a relationship. What sweeter moment can there be in the catalogue of anyone’s of love life than to have someone choose you over another on the morning of your birthday in the empty streets of London one cold December morning. Talk about grand gestures and romantic endings.
Two weeks later, I answered the phone from my office as I completed the payroll.
‘Player’s Theatre, how can I help?’
‘Can I speak to Romeo?’
‘May I ask who’s calling please?’
The ten step walk from my office to the bar was the longest I’ve trekked. The standing in front of my staff and saying in a cold lifeless voice – ‘you girlfriend’s on the phone’ still pains me now.
I could scream at him in the privacy of my office. I could take him off the bar and force him to work on the door (sitting on a stool signing members in for five hours straight). I couldn’t however force him to love me or like me or want me as his girlfriend. That morning of my birthday was unforgettable. The most romantic moment of my life eternally tarnished.
Eventually I was forced to sack Romeo. He was running a scam at the bar stealing in excess of ten thousand pounds with his brother and cousin (hence the theatre bankrupting). As I fired him, I asked why. Why did he do it? I employed him. Why steal from somewhere and someone who’d always been good to him? Why steal when I’d have given him the money if he asked? He shook his head shamefully. We kissed one last time. We both cried. I never saw him again.
You won’t see this story on TV or at the movies any time soon – but don’t think it never happens.
Discovering Cougar Town (young guys wanting older women, not the Courtney Cox comedy) after I hit thirty was a bit like Lucy discovering Narnia in ‘The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe’. Everyone I told didn’t believe that I was for real. They thought I was fabricating the truth to account for my single status as a thirty something. Fortunately for me technology had moved on significantly since I’d first lost my virginity.
Nowadays there are profiles on the internet laden with numerous photos and even better body proud young men happy to send photos via text or BBM to tease you with their gym sculpted bodies. Even better than that, there are the real exhibitionists willing to send over pictures of their youthful erections – trust me a there is nothing better than a big, fat, hard teenage cock. That sounds crass, but it is in fact super sexy and legal!!!
Hence, while I regaled the open plan office where I worked, with tales of my conquests ranging of men between ten to twelve years younger than me, if ever I saw a couple of doubtful faces or heard whispers that I was exaggerating my experiences, I needed only to whip out my phone to produce pictures and texts pertaining to the boy in question.
I have always liked my ‘brown boys’ with a particular penchant from those with origins in India, Pakistan and Sri Lanka. It seems fitting with England competing against India tomorrow in the cricket that the sexual exploit that first springs to mind was a teenage gym bunny I met over Face-party (a more sexual precursor to Facebook) was of Indian descent.
Call me racist or stereotypical but in regard to my social and sexual encounters with Indian men they have always been hugely appreciative of my plumper figure; their eyes widening lustily with all that soft, white, ample flesh against their own dark naked bodies.
I remember his six pack, I remember his prick, but I’m very sorry to say I don’t remember his name.
I had been somewhat precarious about arranging to see him because he was so body conscious. I thought my figure would repulse him. He’d seen pictures of me online but to my shame I had taken a few liberties with my profile photographs which were not only taken from a flattering angle but were a few years old and portrayed me as slightly slimmer version to what I actually was.
Greeting him at Stockwell tube station I had the knot in my stomach of him being either completely insensitive and calling me on the faux photo scam that I myself had been caught out with over my online dating experience or even worse be polite by visiting my house but evade all my sexual overtures.
He had a big smile for me which was slightly reassuring. He was whippet thin. At 5’10, I doubted he weighed more than 9 stone – say 57 kilograms for those using the metric system. I had a couple of stone on him easily and made a mental note not to even attempt going on top of the lad for fear of crushing him. I knew he worked out daily but he appeared to be more of a cardiovascular guy rather than a weights man.
His teenage libido took over the second I opened the door to my bedsit and let him in. He pushed me straight on the bed and started kissing me hungrily. It was quite nice but I had a nasty next door neighbour and didn’t want him peering in or pushing open the door to see what the ruckus was about. As the lithe lad clambered up me like a horny puppy I was trying to wriggle down the bed to kick the door shut with my foot.
He was so light it wasn’t actually that difficult and after hearing the familiar click of the lock, I allowed myself the pleasure of whipping off his shirt to see if his photos were for real.
I am happy to report all was present and correct. His washboard stomach was almost as rock hard as the cock that was pressing into my tummy as he smothered me in kisses. He was going a little overboard and almost licking my face which I wasn’t overly keen on.
Hands were trying to squeeze in the waistband of my already too tight jeans.
In the end I had to tell him to calm down for a bit. His big brown eyes and attempt at designer stubble made him look younger than his nineteen years. Part of me is always flummoxed why these gorgeous, fit boys were scouring the internet to get laid and not making the most of their hedonistic university lifestyle. Whether girls sharing classes with them were too close to see their appeal I don’t know, but I know that in that particular moment I was glad he’d been driven by rejection or alack of pussy to Faceparty and fate had him stumble across my profile.
Looking like a chastised child I took the time to run my hands over his body and it was perfect; fit, firm and fuckable. I slowed the pace by undressing him and was thrilled to see an erection, snug in his black tight legged boxers – undoubtedly with Calvin Klein imprinted on the waist-band. Fashion and image were everything to this guy so why he was hard for me was far beyond my comprehension, but I didn’t draw his attention to the obvious difference in our appearances.
When I removed my top and freed my breasts of the push up bra, he ran his hands over my feminine untoned tummy and suckled my nipples like a baby. It was sweet that his hand was desperate to make contact with what was under my knickers but those jeans weren’t budging for him to slip his fingertips under.
I released the button of the jeans and knew I was spilling out. It possibly would have been prudent to wear control knickers but the tight elastic would only have furthered hindered his endeavour to get between my lips.
When his fingers delved into my wetness he released my breasts from his mouth and groaned. He could tell from the warm slipperiness of my minge that I was ready and willing to take him. Thus he rolled my knickers down and I spread my legs for him to enter.
I have to be brutally honest and say he wasn’t the biggest I had – if I was to be really accurate I’d say he was below average, but it wasn’t size that rendered the session difficult to bear; it was his abundance of energy. The guy was like a Duracell Bunny. At first I’d loved feeling his young cock penetrate me. I loved that he (thought) he was slamming it into me. I loved that his hands were under my shoulders in an attempt to plough deeper. I loved seeing his brown skin glued to mine with sweat from the effort of his exertions. I didn’t love that he continued in missionary for at least a good twenty minutes with nothing else going on – no kissing, no nipple squeezing, no nothing. I could see my remote control on my bedside cabinet and had to refrain from turning on the television to catch up on the news while he made the most of my vagina.
Trying to spice things up, I shifted into doggy-style to hopefully end the spontaneous work-out he was inflicting on me. I had the utmost respect for his dedication to the gym and I appreciated the results but I wasn’t the sporty type (nor will I ever be!). Constant sex in the same position was tedious, unimaginative and unsexy.
The trouble with doggy-style was that there was a lot of white ass he had to plough through to get to my slit. His dick just didn’t have the length to give the position justice, no sooner was he inside me thrusting furiously then he’d slide back out. It was frustrating for me but I was prepared to write the event off. Rather than tell him he’d dislodged I let him continue thrusting between my thighs. He was grunting and moaning so I figured he was enjoying the sensation. In fact I even had time to open the graphic novel I’d had on my pillow to read while he exercised his cardiovascular system. I’m pretty sure he was too heavily into the rutting to notice what I was up to. Once I’d finished reading the adventures of ‘Invincible’ I discreetly closed the comic and put my hands between my legs; clearly the only person bringing me any satisfaction that evening was going to be me.
Having cottoned onto what was happening he went strong for the home run. I obviously was clenching my thighs when I reached my own peak because the next thing I knew his cum was spurting between my clamped thighs. I suddenly realised, because of the stream of semen running down my thighs, he was going to cotton on to the fact that he’d basically been wanking himself between my thighs rather than fucking a youngish cougar for all she was worth.
To avoid any awkwardness afterwards, I was inclined to dress quickly and make up a pathetic excuse about having to meet a friend for a late dinner. I know I came across as rude and dismissive and I hate that I did, but I was prepared to shoulder that condemnation, rather than have him look downcast when he realised his invested energies had done nothing to sexually fulfil me. You take the good with the bad – that’s what happens sometimes in sex. Anyway the lovely boy at the Maharani more than made up for events earlier that evening by giving me complimentary samosas with my take-away curry, but I’ll go into the details of that another time.
People may condemn me for what I am about to commit to paper so to avoid excessive offence let me preface the fact that the following statement is based solely on my own personal experience.
‘It’s far easier for a woman to get sex than it is for a man’
The reason behind this gross generalization is the cold hearted truth is women are more discerning choosing their sexual partners as opposed to the majority of hot blooded heterosexual men who place greater emphasis on burying their cocks in something wet, warm which will allow them to achieve an orgasm. They place more value on the act of sex than women do. Brainwashed with romantic comedy after romantic comedy, growing young adults believe the men they select should resemble these hugely fictionalized, romantically extravagant and emotionally mature matinee idols whom grace the silver screen to steal a woman’s heart.
It’s a crushing disappoint in one’s sexual journey to discover most of these romantic heroes are merely portrayed and created to appeal to the emotional nature of women. The other strange factoid here is that the writers of such works are usually men. These authors know what women want and need but I’d love to know if they behave at home in a similar manner to the heroes they create when drafting a script.
The upshot of it all this is women are constantly seeking out unrealistic men and swatting away any man that doesn’t measure up. Women will refuse sex if, whether drunk or sober, they decide a guy can never compare to their ‘dream man’. They’ll skip the sex and remain on the lookout for Mr Right…at least until someone they really fancy buys them a drink and gets them feeling wet and wanton – in which case they may accept the proposition of sex.
Men aren’t as particular. As long as they can manage to avoid any features of a woman that may diminish their erections (that’s why doggy style gained such popularity), they’ll take whoever is available, capable, consensual and willing to allow them to unleash an orgasm and pound them until their cocks are satisfied.
Fortunately for me I cottoned onto this imbalance of the sexual scales between genders early on. If I wanted to get sex I could and very easily…as long as I was willing to adjust my standards. I tried never to lower them too much otherwise the experience, quite possibly, would’ve been crap. In which case I’d wake the next day with low self esteem and spend too much time dwelling on my inability to sleep with an attractive man. The new found knowledge on the lower standards men have did give me the injection of sexual confidence required to score the kinds of men I wanted to be having sex with.
Again I revert to Great Yarmouth and our annual trips throughout the summer, with a lot of time frequenting Vauxhall caravan site.
Recollection is a little vague but I believe L and I were visiting Yarmouth for a bank holiday. We allowed L’s younger sister ‘A’ and the sister’s best friend to join us for the weekend. We took up residence in a B&B for the night. L’s sister couldn’t have been any more than sixteen. Regretfully as a demonstration of our own immaturity, inability to effectively manage and care for the two girls we ended up buying them drinks and getting them drunk.
Both L and I were drunk, but I was seeking a shag and L a kebab. We split with L taking the girls to the kebab shop and me choosing something a little sweeter as opposed to the savoury delights L was in dire need of.
Now Vauxhall caravan park, and I assume most caravan parks in general, tend to be very family friendly so it’s unusual to find singletons or small groups of young people holidaying there. It was our choice of preferred partying venue because L’s parents had chosen it as their regular holiday destination many years previous, plus L was the first person in England to befriend the mad Australian, thus our friendship had developed and grown stronger at that very location so our presence there was a celebration of our friendship.
The real reason responsible for us becoming permanent fixtures at the caravan park was because we paid a lot of attention to the security guards who managed the site. It was mandatory for people requiring access to the grounds to present their keys to the main entrance security man as proof that they were staying in the park and could make use of all its facilities. All we had to present was a very short skirt and a little harmless flirting and we had entry without having to fork out for accommodation.
Although it forever remains an alcoholic haze I undoubtedly collected a young man named Carl at some point in the evening and had either verbally or as a result of body language confirmed he was on a promise. However with two tired teens, one horny twenty-something and one hungry twenty-something we had to divide and split up in order that everyone’s individual needs and wants were achieved.
In fairness L did draw the short straw. Okay she got to have her kebab but she was also left as guardian to the girls because I needed cock. I think L had taken on the role of ‘mother’ that evening and informed me once she had her sister and friend settled, she would be back to collect me so anything I needed done I should hurry up with. L could be controlling at the best of times but this was only because she couldn’t bare the thought of losing any one of her nearest and dearest loves and as her best friend I suspect that’s why she was being so head misstressy responsible.
Once the girls had disappeared it was time for me to finally get what I’d been waiting for all night.
Carl wasn’t stunning or particularly good looking but he wasn’t unattractive be any means. He was about 5’10 which gave him an inch over me in my 4 inch heels. The fact he was so slim gave him an almost gaunt looking face, but he had soft features facially. His jet black hair had grown out of its original buzz-cut and needed to be styled. His eyes were a golden brown and his lips were in perfect proportion to his face. When he did his half smile I almost melted.
It wasn’t his looks that reeled me in. What drew me to him was there was a strong element of edginess and danger surrounding him, which I associated to him being from a particularly rough area of South East London. At that time whether 23 or 16 we were all kids. I remember he was three months shy of 18. He skinny as rake – too thin. When naked I noticed his rib cage visible, I’m ashamed to say as someone who carries a few extra pounds I was jealous rather than concerned about his dietary and nutritional habits.. As we walked the caravan site where silence had descended as holiday makers slept for the evening, he took my hand affectionately and walked us through row upon row of identical caravans trying to find the one he was staying in.
Weirdly what sticks in my mind was at that age it wasn’t all about one night stands so there was time to talk and get to know each other in the most innocent of manners. Somehow worked cropped up and he told me he was thinking of joining the armed forces. I was curious as to why and he explained he’d been a bit of a bad boy and felt the army may discipline him and give him a career path. I asked what he did currently and he laughed and I said he was a bit naughty but trying to change. I laughed aloud wondering how he could shock me with his line of work and blurted out, ‘You’re not a drug dealer are you?’
He didn’t deny it but shrugged and said,
‘It’s not hard stuff I sell but at least now you know why I’m thinking about joining the army when I’m old enough. It’s kind of the only way to get away from what I do.’
It was confusing hearing he was a drug dealer as he simultaneously held my hand in an open display of affection. It’s something men can struggle with at the best of times and even then it can take years to coax them that it’s okay to be tactile in public. This 21 year old drug dealer was so sweet.
‘This is it,’ he said at the front door.
We both stood observing it hesitantly. Someone needed to break the silence as to why we were still outside rather than inside and eventually Carl spoke.
‘My Dad and Uncle and two brothers are in there. I don’t know if they’re sleeping in the bedrooms or if one of ’em has crashed on the sofa bed thing in the lounge.’
I didn’t want to pass up the sex and I think he was trying to ascertain whether I was willing to consider alternative arrangements. The only sensible solution, in the dark night with the camp site all asleep was to fuck on the grass by the caravan. It was soft and being drunk neither of us thought about any possible ramifications.
He was wearing all black and when I lifted his shirt to see a six pack exposed I noted how pale he was. The black clothes made him quite striking to admire in the moonlight. He pulled his shirt down, implying he did not want to get naked. On reflection I suspect he was all too aware that his Dad or Uncle could wake any moment to see what was going on and he wanted to maintain some modesty if discovered.
That kind of stuff is easy for the guy but far more difficult for women. If I wanted his cock so bad I had no option but to undress significantly to give him full access to me.
Thank god he was young and thank the lord we were both drunk because it may have been easy enough to push my short skirt up but trying to get me out of tights and control knickers was nightmarish. Carl was attempting to be both seductive and of assistance in wrenching off everything. It was not a good look and sober would’ve been a major turn off. In a young hormonal state it was completely overlooked.
The grass was wet as it was well after 2am and in between my legs was just as wet. My lower half was fully exposed but all Carl wanted to do was unbutton his fly and drop his jeans enough to get inside as speedily as possible.
Aware his father was in the caravan right next to where we were having sex and knowing security patrolled the grounds and any other holiday-maker might stumble across us only added to the sexual charge.
He was incredibly lean and I was surprised at how strong he was. After much fumbling in the dark with exuberant French kissing and a thorough finger fucking, he finally managed to insert his cock in me after managing to get a condom on.
Not every cock is a porno cock and that’s fine. I loved having him shaft and thrust inside me. At that point in time I had little experience in sex so was satisfied just that I was being fucked. Technique meant little to me. However the location offered all sorts of sexually tempting goodies for me to delight in. The wet grass against my buttocks was an alien sensation. Reaching into his boxers to claw on his perfect bottom to draw him further into me, only to hear his audible moaning was tantalizing. The knowledge we could be caught at any moment was thrilling. All these external factors impacted directly on the sex. To force the deepest penetration in missionary position he grabbed my wrists with each of his hands and pinned them above my head preventing me from resisting or in any way controlling the rhythmic screwing of me. In his leanness I could see the muscles in his upper arms, defined and prominent holding me down with sheer brute strength. To be wholly dominated, not in a kinky or brutal way, was hugely sensual.
As a big girl, sometimes that’s all men see. Their initial assessments about my bedroom antics is that I’m some kind of dominatrix, but those assumptions couldn’t be further from the truth. To have a man exert his strength, keeping me trapped under him even when I did put up some resistance had me wetter and wanting more vanilla style fucking. It reminded me whatever additional weight I carried, ultimately men are stronger than women. This reinforced my perhaps naïve belief that there were men around that could make me feel my most feminine without me ever having to sacrifice my voluptuous figure.
Realising I couldn’t squirm away from this Duracell bunny combined with the fact I was almost powerless to control the depth or rhythm of his grinding and thrusting into me I decided to lose myself in the action.
I splayed my legs wider for him. When he rammed into me I rocked vigorously with each thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist allowing him the deepest penetration possible and he kept his head down and continued battering me with his youthfully exuberant sex.
As I wound my thighs around his waist, I felt him try to wriggle out. With every effort I kept them locked tight and squeezed restraining him. His shirt rode up and I could feel him sweating. He panted and his breath was warm on my face. The more I clenched my thighs the deeper he ploughed. The restriction I introduced resulted in him only capable of continuous thrusts; small but violent as he bore into me desperate to orgasm. There was no time for changing positions and trapped between my thighs Carl was unable to withdraw his cock completely to change the motion of this childlike fuck we both were relishing. Eventually he released his cum and to stop himself screaming he kissed me hard on the mouth.
I saw him stand up, remove the condom and throw it under a caravan adjacent to his own. We had a laugh and exchanged mobile numbers. I felt for the first time in a long time this could well be the man to actually return a call or want to see me again.
By now it was getting on for 3am and as luck would have it the security van veered in our direction. George, a rather jolly but formidable Scottish man who was the head of security reached out of the window and opened the slide door on the van. I gave Carl a kiss and said I hoped I’d see him again at some point. Given he was a South London boy and my permanent residence was located in the same city, it was actually feasible this could develop beyond a one night stand.
When I got in the van there were two other security guards. Kenny who was trying his best to romance and form a long distance relationship with L and another random. I can’t say for sure but they recall Head of Security, George giving me a right telling off because L had returned to the camp-site and couldn’t find me any where to give me a lift to the B&B, thus the boys had been combing the camp-site in the van for ages trying to find me. That particular chastising I do remember.
They then allege I stood up in the van and my control knickers and tights dropped from under my skirt. Apparently I looked down, picked the under garments up and shrugged it off as a normal occurrence. Carefully stepping out of my knickers and tights and declaring I’d take them home by hand. More than ten years on and they continue to recall this incident with much mirth.
However given the van arrived, literally as we were getting up off the ground I can’t envisage how this could practically have eventuated. When did I have time between Carl withdrawing his cock from me and the security vehicle arriving to redress in tights and control knickers? It was a two man job necessitating enormous effort to remove them, so how did I get them untangled and redress myself in the brief time-line between the end of copulation and arrival of security. The other huge plot flaw is if I had managed to get them on, the control knickers were a size to small for me (squeezes you in just a little bit more girls) and given how tight and inflexible the control knickers material is in order to perform the wonders of shaping one’s body how could that style of underwear be lose enough to just ‘fall down’ to my ankles.
I have no doubt, being intoxicated I didn’t put my underwear on and chose to carry it on the van. As an open Australia I would have had no hesitation flashing them round to show everyone whilst bragging about my latest conquest. However the Vauxhall caravan legend this story became has been grossly exaggerated and embellished. I’d love to brand it a lie but I can never be 100% certain it didn’t happen. Ten years on I shoulder the teasing and continual references to this incident because after ten years of hearing about an event you participated in but can’t fully recall you start believing the gossip yourself – even if the evidence and facts don’t support the story.
My night, and indeed my sex life for that night did not finish there and then with me being taken back to the B&B, but I shall return to this night in a fortnight to complete what happened only thirty minutes later.
As an epilogue I was surprised and extremely flattered six months later after receiving a text from Carl informing me he’d been accepted into the army and because I ‘blew his mind’, he was wondering if I fancied hooking up to be his last shag before he started training. As I write this I do hope now this it wasn’t a ‘mass marketing’ standard text sent to every girl on his contact list. Anyway I had to refuse. At the time I was a committed North London resident and crossing the Thames to South London only ever happened out of absolute necessity or under enormous duress.
In my online dating years and when I was pretty determined to sleep with someone from every country I decided I had to sleep with a South African. There’s actually a very healthy rivalry between South Africa and Australia so it had never been too high on my list of priorities, but it was a box that needed to be checked.
I scoured the internet for ages finding the right one. Now I was in mid-twenties. Younger boys held no appeal for me, my preference was for older men, but I was also happy to fuck someone in my own age bracket.
I wish I could remember his name because he’s sent me a thousand friend requests on Facebook (all of which I declined – what a bitch I am sometimes!) so I should be familiar with it. But I’m not. He’s just another face without a name in my sexual history.
Aside from being South African (I’ve been told I need to clarify here he was white Caucasian) he wasn’t a bad looking boy. He actually possessed more of an American look and was reminiscent of Tom Cruise, which is no bad thing if that’s your type. He was short, maybe 5’5 with shoes on, had blonde hair, perfect shiny white teeth and the body of someone who spent a lot of time at the gym but didn’t have the physique for it to be overly impressive or noticeable.
We’d chatted online briefly and I organised the hook up just as quickly. As with any cyber sex sessions, discussions of likes and dislikes had come into conversation and I do believe mentioning I was quite up for anal sex. In all honesty I wasn’t that up for it, but some men see it as quite slutty and sexy so I felt it would increase my chances of getting laid.
The only thing about dating younger guys, or at that time men in their mid twenties is their lack of confidence. Despite me giving him my address he asked if I might meet him a the tube station and walk him back to mine. It kind of seemed a role reversal in terms of traditional male/female roles but because I was pretty independent and desperate for cock I agreed.
Meeting him at the station I could see not only was I going to have sex with a South African but also a man that would’ve been classified as a dwarf if he’d been born an inch or two shorter -not great for a 5’7 Amazonian-esque Australian like me.
I had an inkling I would want it over and done with asap. Bit of a workout for my vagina, send him home and then a bit of fast food and crap late night TV.
The bedsit I was living in at the time was in fact in the loft of a top floor flat and I had to climb up a ladder to get in there. There was a single bed, which I used as a couch and a double futon which I slept in.
The sex was almost perfunctory. By the time we got up the ladder, there wasn’t really all that much to discuss. He was a trainee accountant at a law firm, which is probably why he could afford to buy the best brand of lube in the market, which he presented to me like a wedding ring, but his profession wasn’t riveting enough to warrant feigned interest and questioning about his job.
It was kind of a kiss and clothes off affair.
In hindsight I found the height difference a little off putting. I could lay on the single bed, my bottom perched on the edge, legs spread, wet and waiting giving him easy access but as he began fucking me I realised he didn’t even have to bend his knees to get into my cunt. Nor did he need to prop my bottom up with pillows so that he wasn’t squatting while he was thrusting. If anything I suspect he would’ve been happy if he’d had a few pillows or a small cardboard box to stand on while pumping away.
His inexperience and lack of technique was all too obvious. I liked his enthusiasm and the velocity. His thick cock going in and out of me was pleasing. But the man handling of my breasts, squeezing them, pinching them was all good until he suckled them. He didn’t suck quickly, or suck and nibble. He suckled them as one would imagine a baby would. Making slurping noises. Ths short South African had a fat stubby cock inside me while he suckled my breasts. Taking turns on each one. Resting on my chest and just sucking and pumping. Thank fuck he didn’t call me mum.
I was wondering how long I’d have to endure the child like sexual behaviour when he boldly said, ‘Your arse. Let me fuck your arse.’
‘Yeah sure.’ I agreed quickly enough thinking the sooner the experience was over the better.
‘Do it like in the movies please.’
Wordlessly I moved from the single bed onto my double futon on the floor on my hand and knees. I could hear him squirting the lube and telling me how much he wanted this. I was going to ask if he wanted it more than me putting him in a nappy and giving him a rusk but thought it may further delay this mortifying experience.
Things went from bad to worse. His pork sword may have been ready to invade but my anus was having none of it. It was as if my arsehole had been super-glued shut. This should have demonstrated how tense and unrelaxed I was in this encounter but the South African wasn’t taking no for an answer. He just put more and more lube on his cock and more and more lube around my bottom.
He pounded and grinded trying to force the slightest opening so he could then force his cock in. It was lucky he’d been working out cause he needed the strength and stamina for this nearly impossible feat.
I mentally applauded him because he did manage it. But the sheer power required had meant while I’d started on all fours with each thrust my hands slipped forward and I began to move downwards. I could see my hands pushing the duvet towards the wall and my face getting closer and closer to the mattress. Soon enough I was lying on my stomach. Pancaked on the bed. I’d have preferred to be a little more picturesque and described myself as more of a ‘crepe’ demolished on the bed, but my rather rolling soft curves meant I was more a fluffy, filling pancake. It wasn’t until I was plastered to the bed that he got in. I was face down on my bed as his cock stabbed into me. In an effort of my own, and I wasn’t a regular gym goer, I resisted the intensity of his thrusting just enough to raise myself and my arse up so he could penetrate a little deeper. Where I mustered the energy I know not where – at that time I did wonder if there wasn’t something in all this religious malarkey – but in returning to half doggy style position it gave him enough room to be thrilled enough by the anal sex to cum.
I disposed of his presence as quickly as I did the condom. To be honest I probably would’ve enjoyed visiting South Africa more via Google Earth rather than have someone bum me quite so viciously and vigorously. I don’t think I dismissed him in a nasty or harsh way because he very kindly offered me the exclusive expensive bottle of lube so we could have anal sex again next time he came round. He never came round again…but the lube was used up for more anal sex.
As a woman by the time you hit 30, if you’re still single, generally speaking society will still impress its traditional values on you that you have in fact been ‘left on the shelf’; are a spinster; will soon be buying kittens to fill the gap in your heart/life. It’s not said out loud but it is implied.
We thirty-something singletons cling to ‘Sex and the City’ like some sort of new age bible. A guide through the wilderness of being society’s silent spinsterish outcasts. You feel it though. The ring finger on your left hand is all to obviously naked to the eyes of other women. The continual ‘plus one’ or do we even need to include a ‘plus one’ on invitations to you (they can save the money on at least one head with permanently single friends) at large functions….normally weddings.
So how does one combat this unspoken discrimination and disdain from the women that somehow managed to nab a man in their twenties? We brag about being ‘good time’ girls and loving our ‘independence’ as well as embracing out first foray into cougar town. In order to do this though, one must at least hold up the pretence of these qualities in public. I did for a good 18 months – it’s hard work though.
My friend, L, who was always destined to be successful in her professional life and was wanted by many a man was actually discerning enough not just to settle in a rush before hitting 30. What she had done was not only secured a high flying position within an international company before 30 – financial director no less. This afforded us a couple of things:
- A taste for champagne thanks to easy access to the company credit card
- A rather swish new build one bedroom flat above Romford Market Square – kitted out for two ladies on the prowl. A comfy bachelorette pas as it were in a good location.
From the financially secure and rather lush surroundings we had those familiar with Essex, or more particularly Romford you may be surprised to hear it wasn’t Liquid & Envy or the Buddha Lounge we would glam ourselves up for to demonstrate the wonderfulness of being single and 30 (the closest we came to a trendy drinking hole was the Yates’ and it wasn’t all that trendy). Our preferred choice of location that had a romping good old 80s/90s/00s discos in a pub with a sticky dance floor and punters that were either locals, those strapped for cash or a more elderly clientèle was the Lamb.
We were there for a guaranteed good time but it was slim pickings on the male front. However at some stage throughout the proceeding you could guarantee that some hapless youths (maybe those that couldn’t face the queues of Liquid & Envy) would stumble into the Lamb and L and I would zone in quickly before any other potential femme fatale competitor could edge their way into the frame.
L loved that flat. I guess it was her home, she owned it and it was safe. Mostly if we got a slow dance and a snog we’d be happy for the night. We’d have kept up the façade of single 30 something good time gals. But me? I had an insatiable libido. And an insecurity that only having a cock inside me could possibly alleviate for a time and those Friday nights in Romford threw me that occasional lifelines.
One particular night stays vivid in my mind on the grounds that I managed to hook a young lad that was eager enough to pursue me beyond the obligatory slow dance and snog and was, in my opinion and to my tastes worth allowing a successful sexual pursuit. At 18 to my pending 31st birthday, the 12 year age gap was an attractive enough attribute. The fact that his fashion was neither ‘chavvie’ nor reflective of his work appealed – a simple paid of faded denim jeans, plain white t-shirt, skate shoes and hoodie ensured he wasn’t a fashion faux pas or an intimidating fashion statement to be compared with on the journey home by passer byers – the five minute walk from the pub to L’s plush pad still required us crossing a good deal of pedestrian traffic whose drunken shout outs and cruel comments could scupper the deal for me and my one night stand. What really sealed the deal the messed up brown hair that looked like it ought to have been cut and styled months earlier that hung in his huge caramel puppy dog eyes on his cherubic face, set off with plump lips that turned into an almost diagonal smile when he did take his mouth off mine long enough to ensure he’d secured a shag for the night.
But L was not a woman of compromise. Actually that’s not fair she was. She wouldn’t leave me to have sex in the street (not that I hadn’t previously on countless occasions) but she wasn’t willing to invite a stranger into her pristine flat to infect the house with boy sex germs either. This left me and my teen with the staircase.
At this point in our sexual careers both L and I had ditched glam for comfort. Jeans and a sexy blouse was as effective, given the rather low brow standing of our frequented venue, as a glitzy dress or short skirt. It did however mean urgent access for a quickie was out of the question. Trousers are no real problem for a guy – it’s a mere unzipping and perhaps a slight shift and the erection is out and ready to power in. For me, clad in jeans, the only way that erection was going to gain entry to the (not so) forbidden fruits was complete removal of the jeans (and the high heeled boots!).
For me I had alfresco sex numerous times and I wasn’t a permanent resident of the flats so any shame associated being discovered mid-act was minimal to me. Fortunately because the teen had joined us in downing numerous shots over the duration of the evening so any inhibitions he had or concern about his reputation (being a local and all) seemed almost non existent. Weighing up the pros and cons as a new build not all the flats had been sold or rented so the chances of being caught were low.
Getting the jeans off and being bare arsed was risky to say the least but I concede there’s an awful lot of scope for steps to be incorporated into sexual activity. In the initial neediness and desperation we felt to connect physically I could easily bend over and rest my hands on the fifth or sixth step up which allowed him to penetrate me quickly from behind. The stairs offered me the support I needed as he pounded me furiously – somewhat aware of the time and location.
Once the first burst of lust had been satisfied and we were secure that the lights had automatically timed out in the staircase leaving us lit only by the moon and the street lights of Romford market we had more time to play.
Young and eager to please he had me sit on the third step and parted my thighs so he could perform orally on me. At the end of the day in those circumstances experience is irrelevant. Any man wanting to put his tongue into your wet pussy and laps at it like a dog is a massive turn on – more so because this young thing was kneeling before me to perform the act. And the more he licked the more I moaned. I got a feel for the body beneath the skater boy looked when he came out from between my legs and hooked my legs over his shoulders and began fucking me on the stair. Pushing and trying to plough as deep as he could. The deeper he got, the more I whimpered caught in the pain pleasure scenario and the deeper he tried to go. When he started being vocal about the timing of his potential climax, I pushed hard at his hips to prevent him from doing so given there was no protection involved.
I stood up and looked down at him kneeling. His youthful, bewildered expression looking up at me barely registered as his cock that looked fit to burst and dominated the picture I was gazing down upon. I raised my leg up to the third step and gently pulled his head to my wet cunt to let him lap a little more and lick my clit until I felt the orgasmic moment he so desired had been delayed.
I told him to sit on the steps and he obeyed without question knowing what I was attempting to do. When he was lent back and could support himself (and me) I sat slowly on his cock and bobbed up and down on it. My thighs were not in for a full workout so I eventually settled on his cock; rocking slowly and feeling his muscular chest against my back. Supporting most of my weight, I guided one of his hands to my breasts as I reached down and massaged his ball as I continued to gently move on his cock. When the panting in my ear graduated from a whisper to a more audible level and his balls tightened in my hands I jumped up quickly and before I had time to kneel between him to suck him to the moment of ejaculation he’d already released.
It was all over him, not me. This made getting dressed all the more easy for me. The goodbye was awkward. I would love to have invited him to stay the night, or even have a nightcap or to call a cab but it wasn’t my premise to offer out. Fortunately L had already made it very clear he wasn’t welcome in the flat so he headed down a flight of stairs and I headed up the stairs to the entrance to L’s place.
Simple, satisfying, sex. Two people. One staircase. No strings.
I’ve always thought people can be easily separated into two groups; those who favour Christmas and those who favour New Year’s. Personally I’ve always been a Christmas girl. People are more spirited, friendly and benevolent with their sexual favours (treating them like presents to give out to a stranger) in that party atmosphere where Santa and his elves peep in from the outskirts. It’s almost as if you have to be naughty to be nice in December. It’s a time of sharing and giving – so with beer goggles firmly attached people are more likely to hook up out of a general feeling of goodwill. It’s a fabulous feeling.
New Year’s though … people are out for themselves. It’s no longer about sharing and giving; it’s about cutting off old ties, burning bridges and creating a new and better life for one’s self. It’s about new starts and hopes and they spring from each individual’s wants and desires. Whereas Christmas is about being with other people and loving what we’ve got, New Year’s is about moving on from what we have in the hope of finding something better.
It’s always been fucking shambolic for me and absolutely dire in the sex stakes. I blame this solely on the fact that people become self absorbed, self obsessed and overly critical and analytical of themselves on New Year’s and thus are unable to focus on the people around them. They look at potential shag’s on New Year’s Eve as if they are potential life partner’s … and clearly I never quite made the grade. Christmas people are just looking for a good time in a warm setting where everyone leaves happy but knowing it’s all been easy Christmas fun. No pressure, no strings. New Year’s is all about the pressure to start anew so everyone becomes tunnel vision.
Hence I’ve always avoided New Year’s. It’s nothing but a constant disappointment for me.
I give you a few examples. When I lost my virginity in 1999 I pretty much became a cock hungry whore. I remember the evening before the work Christmas party my friend and I decided to go clubbing in the West End. I preferred to steer clear of the West End of account of my rather voluptuous figure and general lack of experience in more expensive (or classy) environment. This night though there was decorations and mistletoe. At a time when boy bands were at their height I found myself being approached by a little cutie that could easily have jumped off the cover of smash hits magazine with his black curtains haircut, chiselled features and perfectly packaged body. He’d come from work in trousers and a smart shirt but it wasn’t long before he had smiled and whispered to me he was going to the toilet.
I wasn’t sure how to read that but felt there was an invitation in his declaration of requiring use of the club’s facilities. I made my way down the stairs and he was waiting at the bottom. As soon as I appeared he grabbed my hand and dragged me into the women’s toilets, locking us into a cubicle. Without further ado hands were down pants, tights and control knickers were being clumsily taken off. I went to sit him on the toilet so I could ride him but he took one look at the state of the toilet and shook his head. For some reason it was okay to have sex in the toilet but not on the toilet.
Because he was short and I was in 4 inch heels the sex was quickly becoming a logistical nightmare. Soon enough I was slipping out of my shoes to lower my height. My hands pinned to the toilet wall and legs spread to allow him access. He just had an inch or two but the cubicle was so small my thunderous thighs couldn’t spread as wide as required. The next attempt I had my hands on the side of the cubicle. One leg on the floor, the other leg raised and rested onto the toilet bowl. This gave him the spread to enter me clumsily. Both young and somewhat inexperienced and overly horny and desperate to do the deed to go and brag to our respective friends. A few thrusts and I found my hands slipping. He was frustrated he couldn’t go deeper…and so was I. Again we tried a re-position. He stood, semi squat, over the toilet bowl and tried to life me up. I have to say he was a brave sex soldier trying given my bulk! He lifted me up and onto his cock but as muscular and wiry as his build was he would be no means have the stamina to continue supporting my weight while fucking me like a rabbit. I then attempted my own acrobatic feat by clutching the walls of the cubicle and supporting my weight while trying to ride on his cock. Being unfit and having no upper arm strength this only lasted a few more thrusts.
By this time it was painfully obvious what was going on. Did people make complaints, bang angrily on the door, call security??? NO! It was Christmas and people were happy. In fact I remember one girl finding my shoe, kicked down a few stalls and slipping it under my door wishing me well with my activity and reminding me not to forget my shoes.
He was desperate to cum; I was desperate to be more fully fucked. I decided to give my first Christmas gift. I braved the toilet bowl. I bent over and rested my hands on the toilet bowl. This gave me the stability and height for him to enter and fuck me like the Duracell Christmas bunny he was. Fortunately his cock was young enough, strong enough and determined enough to have me biting back cries of ecstasy rather than being deterred by the state of the toilet and what germs were there. Soon enough I could feel his cock swelling inside me, my vaginal muscles clamping tighter around him inside. I stood up preventing him from any potential explosion. Looked at the toilet seat…thought of what Jesus would want (a safe but heavenly experience I guesses…and sat on the toilet seat.
I began licking his cock up and down. It was to be my first proper blow job. I pulled the foreskin down and traced my tongue around the head of his cock. I sucked the top – he moaned. I didn’t know if I sucked it too hard but he groaned loudly. I continued licking up and down and all around and soon enough I decided it was time to take the beast in my mouth. I opened up and wrapped my lips around the head of his cock. I was careful not to let my teeth graze his prick – I’d read in some woman’s magazine that could cause pain. Slowly I began to ease him further and further into my mouth. I only got it so far before I started to gag. I got a shock and released straight away.
Aware of my inexperience he gently took my head and began to slowly insert himself into my head. Each time I gagged he pulled out. Eventually I began to relax and the more relaxed I became the more of him I found I could fit in my mouth. Feeling a little more in control I began to build up a rhythm. He released his gentle hold on my head and let me manage the job in hand – sorry mouth. Soon enough I could feel him swelling again and I stressed and panicked as the gag reflexes kicked in, but I’d done enough. Just as I was frightened I couldn’t breathe I felt my mouth fill up with a sweet salty liquid. I heard him moaning and could see his hands had gripped the sides of the toilet cubicle. He lent down and kissed my head. While he was zipping up I spat the substance from my mouth into the toilet bowl and began to dress up. We had a kiss, exchanged numbers, ensured our respective friends mingled for the remainder of the evening and went home. Me with a cum stained face and wearing tinsel like a scarf.
The following night at the works Christmas party we found ourselves sharing our venue with another company. Being a virgin – thrice removed – and still buzzing from the night before at 22 I found a lovely young trainee accountant throwing some haphazard drunken shapes to the sounds of Lou Bega and Ricky Martin. Before long we were shimmying on the dance floor closer and closer to each other. As our bodies got closer and closer so to did our lips. But we were both young and being lip locked wasn’t enough. Pretty soon we were almost dry humping on the dance floor. I was the cock hungry, uninhibited Australian within minutes my hands were down his trousers and working their way inside his boxers. Soon enough to allow me more freedom to wank his cock he was unzipping and I was literally performing a hand job in the corner of the dance floor in full view of the partner’s, managing and financial director. Fortunately for me the head of the secretary pool had taken the role of surrogate mother of me in my time in London and within minutes was pushing the boy off saying he ought to know better, seizing my arm and marching me off the dance floor then scolding me like a child at a private table.
But like all naughty Christmas elves once the Christmas party venue closed we somehow gravitated back together at the cloakroom and soon enough found ourselves fornicating at the fire exit of some office building in London’s West End. We literally got lost in the dark doorway, my hands found his cock, he got my dress up and my knickers down far enough for him to thrust into me quickly, desperately and without a sound. It was anonymous Christmas sex, a brief and cheeky pounding for me and something warm and wet for him to remember this particular party in years to come. Unsatisfying because due to time restraints and venue neither of us climaxed but a secret Santa fuck was definitely the order of the night – so once we’d scratched the sexual itch we departed to our separate after parties.
At our recovery party the night after the works Christmas do, L and I made our way to our favourite club in Norbury. The big, black bouncer I had always had a soft spot for allowed me to flirt incorrigibly with him and I made all sorts of promises about him taking me home and revealed all the private sexual thoughts I had carried with him throughout the past 12 months. After a few stolen kisses, by the time the end of the night came the thought of his big black cock became a frightening reality so I began to retract the vows I’d made earlier in the evening. Did he take offense? Refuse entry on our next visit? Start insisting I pay for entry? NO! Because he knew it was Christmas and there was no malice in my last minute rejection, everything was taken in good spirit and a light hearted manner.
That was just three nights over one Christmas. The Christmas of 1999. Do I have any similar tales of New Year’s Eve antics?
Let me think.
Okay so the raunchiest New Year’s experience I had in 32 years – and this is without a word of a lie. In 2003 we decided to do something very last minute for New Year’s. So last minute we didn’t leave home until 11.30pm.By the time we made our way through the throng of the humming West End the countdown had begun. I was wearing combat trousers and a bra covered by only a net top. I was looking pretty cute I think – sex in a girl next door kinda way. There was the smell of a million different aftershaves and perfumes mingling with the abundance of pheromones, the mist of the smoke machine and alcoholic cocktail haze the room was immersed. As the crowd roared the last count down 3 -2 -1 everyone whooped for joy. At the same moment a man got his watch caught on my net top. Whilst everyone was saying happy new year he was tugging his hand. He kissed me quickly on the mouth and shouted ‘Happy New Year.’ I smiled up at him, expecting a longer, lingering more sensual kiss. ‘Can you undo yourself from me there’s a girl over there I need to get to before someone else does.’ Stupefied in shock, my momentary pause took too long because he ripped his watch from my top, tearing the netting and didn’t bother apologising or looking back. As I looked round the room everyone seemed to be looking for the next best thing and no one was looking at me.
That was the closest I’ve come to sex at New Year’s so you’ll understand my reluctance to blog on this particular time of the year. It’s hardly scintillating stuff a story that can ever be considered ‘Gone Wild’….although his manners had clearly gone somewhere as they weren’t present around me. Fuck New Year and roll on next Christmas.
There is nothing that puts a dampener on one’s sex life then when you both agree you want children but don’t set a date AND practise unsafe sex – that is my husband and I don’t use contraception. As a thirty-something woman the biological clock is ticking away, as someone nearing fifty with an ex-wife and two kids and a brand spanking new wife I suspect the conception of new children isn’t quite as high on his list of priorities as it is mine.
Now we both love a bit of porn and filthy sex but with real life imposing greatly on our once vivid and active imaginations which provided some seriously steamy and depraved sex, I haven’t been getting my five-a-day of late…not even five-a-week – in fact I’m lucky if I get sex once a week (I do normally get a minimum of five orgasms in the weekly session though so if you go for the quality not quantity argument…).
Anyway this discussion on children has made his ejaculation something of a delicate subject when the moment is about to present itself. When he breathlessly asks where I want him to cum as my head is bouncing up and down on his penis I almost stop myself on the spot considering the answer. I don’t though, at his age he remains rock hard and can go for hours without climaxing and sometimes I get lock-jaw so daren’t break the rhythm for fear of having to prepare myself for the onset of a sore jaw and repetitive strain injury in my wrist. The thing is I quite like him cumming inside me. I like the squirt of his semen filling me up and hitting the back wall, I like feeling him pull and wipe his cum soaked cock on my thigh and I LOVE that moment when I stand up and feel his sperm swim out of my wet cunt and down into my panties at some point later that day. Only in light of recent conversations on the progression of our relationship I feel if I ask him to release inside me he’ll assume I want a baby like…yesterday and be scared off. I’m already starved of cock on a once a week diet so if the sex dries up any more I suspect my hymen may grow over and I’ll be re-virginalised.
Last week – aware that his balls were full up of seven days of milky-white tadpoles – when he popped the question I decided to play it safe and go for one of his visually stimulating favourites and said I wanted him to cum on my face. When he asked if I wanted him to kneel over me so I could bring myself off one last time while vibing my clit, him manually finishing himself off as I licked his balls so he could see himself over my tongue and face, I nodded (as I continued my mouth working his cock). Trouble was as it had been such a while since we’d had sex (for us any way) he came before he had time to reposition himself. My peripheral vision caught site of a thick white stream flying past my head in a moan of his ecstasy, akin to someone stomping violently on a pot of yoghurt. I moved my face in a bid to catch the airborne sperm on my tongue and ended up taking the majority of it on my face. However a droplet had hit the corner of my unfortunate open eye.
It stung like fuck and no amount of eye baths took away the pain. Having been accosted briefly by his 90 year old father (asking all sorts of probing questions about this week’s online Sainsbury’s order whilst I cradled my eye and felt my skin tightening as the spunk dried on my face) I eventually returned to be to discuss the distress of my right eyeball. My partner’s was empathetic (as a youngster he was once wanking and spurted with such a force and at such an angle he came in his own eye) towards my bad case of squid eye and I discovered the existence of a very sadist sexual practise which involves a guy coming into a shot glass (or with accurate and effective aim) then forcing a woman’s eye open and dumping the load in there. Severe stinging sensation! I speak from experience. Not from this minor bedroom mishap but a larger one some years ago.
Back in the day when I was a pretty(ier) young(er) thing I made quite the impression on a young man visiting London from Bradford. He was of Indian descent (I do like my brown boys) and a PE teacher to boot (who doesn’t like a six pack and toned body???.) I must’ve quite liked him because I didn’t sleep with him the night I met him – I obviously held off hoping he may like me enough to want to consider me as potential girl friend material. Not succumbing paid off, although he was travelling overseas for six months, he literally called me from the airport when his plane returned to home soil (clearly he hadn’t scored a lot of foreign pussy on his travels).
I was flattered to be his first call and we quickly organised an evening for him to trek to London and ‘see’ me. Sadly I was very young at this point and still couldn’t quite comprehend why such a fittie was interested in me. In addition to this I was inexperienced with the whole dating scenario. I got as far as meeting him in the pub after work for a drink but was unsure what to do from there. Did I suggest dinner? More drinks? A movie? Clubbing? No after two alcopops I found myself inviting him back to my place.
As we walked up there (bare in mind I was living at the Young Women’s Christian Association which didn’t allow overnight male visitors, nor even visitors after 9pm) I knew I had a limited window of opportunity to legitimately get him into my room. Once signed in there was every chance after 9 o’clock the guards would come a-knocking to boot him out.
On the way back my phone started bleeping with texts from a new beau I was sure I was in love with – now not only did I need to fuck this guy before curfew but also I needed to speed things along in order to allow me to return the call of my current obsession. Gorgeous Asian PE Teacher asked if it was my other boyfriend on the phone and I nervously laughed off his all too accurate laughing accusation. Still he was so tactile and affectionate, and I was so besotted by his muscular frame that by the time I got him into my small single bedroom I was tearing off his tight grey shirt and running my hand all over his hard body. The slim waist and rippled torso had my hands undoing his belt and working down the button fly on his jeans. I could see his hard on pressed against his pristine white briefs. The bulging of his pants and thighs (built up undoubtedly from punishing fat kids mercilessly during PE lessons at school) distracted me from contemplating whether this underwear was acceptable or not – it looked like maybe mum still bought it. He was pushing me onto the bed whilst my hands were grabbing desperately at his cock.
He removed my top off and I was wriggling out of my jeans while sucking hard on him. He was groaning so loudly the girl next door thumped on the wall. Fully aware of the time restraints and the possibility of angry neighbour calling security; once free of my jeans I extended my toe towards the CD player (yes this was pre-iPod era) to hit play. Sadly I had left on Backstreet Boys but my handling of his cock was enough to make him stay hard while he sat bolt upright and said ‘Backstreet Boys? Seriously What are you 13?’ (I was 22.) To avoid answering the question I quickly leapt on his cock and rode him like I was a prizewinning rodeo jillaroo – I only lasted the 7 seconds because he was soon begging for a blowjob. I pushed my mouth on his cock and went in for some intense deep throat action. He pulled my head to shallow his thrusting in my mouth, withdrew completely and said ‘I haven’t done this in so long.’ Then he promptly ejaculated all over me. It’s one thing having seven days of spunk flying at you but seven months worth was like a tsunami – unavoidable. It went everywhere but mostly it went in my eye.
Being a tough Australian and keen to keep my options open (there was no guarantee my new text relationship would become realised) I tried to ride it out and be sexy. I rubbed his cum into my plump breasts and my stomach, massaging it down to between my thighs while he watched. As I moved my hands erotically round my voluptuous figure I tried to flick my hair seductively but it was matted from man-milk. What I could feel was the vision in my left eye diminishing. I was rubbing some cum into my face, smiling as if I knew I was going to look ten years younger from having done so when I realised my eye was on fire. It was swelling up so that I couldn’t see out of it all. I wanted to run round the room screaming ‘It burns, it BURNS!’ or fill the little sink up with water and dunk my entire head in it but those actions were decidedly unsexy…but so was a big red swollen eyelid.
The phone began ringing again. My one remaining good eye caught my new love’s name flash up very visibly on the phone’s screen. I suddenly had gone from Australian sex goddess to smelly, slutty girl masquerading as Popeye in drag. There was no sexy way out of the situation other than to literally push him out my bedroom door and say ‘Call me next time your in town!’ As the door slammed shut on his confused face I didn’t hear his foot steps petering away because I had the cold water tap on full blast filling up the sink; my face was pressed to the plug hole waiting for some relief.
There was little respite to be found. Blindly my hand grabbed a flannel and the other my phone so after soaking the flannel I could let it rest on my eye while I hit redial. The voice at the other end of the line asked if I hadn’t answered his calls because I’d been with my other boyfriend. Once again I nervously laughed off the all too accurate gentle accusation. I tried to maintain a conversation being witty and sexy while I nursed my eye. After my appalling dismissal of the body beautiful asian it was evident he was one option no longer available to my heart or vagina – my poor conduct ensured he never did call back. Sadly my eye, now resembling a puffer fish, was affecting my phone manner. My text love decided his suspicions were warranted or that I wasn’t 100% committed to the call and hung up quickly because of my evident inattention. A five minute phone conversation didn’t satisfy my emotional needs any more than a fifteen minute blow job satisfied my cunt which continued aching to be stuffed by a cock. Neither were satisfied that night – this story, akin to my night, was without a resolution.
I have no idea why when I think of Sweden I think of porn. Is it a porn nation or are the associations with pornography now very dated? Perhaps it’s just that the Swedes are such a beautiful race they could all be porn stars, or over-whelmed by their physical attractiveness they instigate pornographic thoughts on an unsuspecting public.
I won a trip to Sweden back in 1999 when I had barely lost my virginity. I was a virgin twice removed. It was the year the musical Mamma Mia opened and as an Australian worshipping at the house of Abba naturally I entered every competition going to score tickets to see it. The particular competition I won resulted in flying first class to Sweden for a weekend at the first class section of a Radisson hotel. I have to say I was somewhat dismayed that it didn’t include tickets to see the musical itself. No that was second prize and the one I felt more coveted. Still never one to knock a freebie L and I decided to trip over there in September 1999.
Be in doubt Stockholm is like one big fashion cat walk. Beautiful boys everywhere.
Although there had been a small débâcle on the flight over (the stewardesses clearly felt our attire didn’t match that of first class passengers and decided to check our tickets and make a little scene when we joined the fast lane – L & I got them back by pocketing a dozen miniature bottles of Baileys from the drinks trolley when the air hostess’s back was turned) everything was luxury from the minute we arrived that Friday afternoon.
That we were put in a first class room and greeted with a bottle of champagne was positively thrilling for two innocents like us. But innocents we were not to be for long because you see First Class rooms at the Radisson come with free porn channels.
Apart from watching a few of my brother’s will hidden soft porn videos when I had an empty house to myself as a teen I hadn’t really experienced any hard core porn – on screen or in my own burgeoning sex life.
But we watched the porn with relish. At that point it was so hardcore some of it made me quite ill. Baring in mind I had only had one cock in my mouth, it hadn’t ejaculated and my treatment of it was like a vomit flavoured ice lolly; watching endless men spunk over tits, faces and even in a pair of shoes made me quite nauseous. L did her best to assure me I’d get used to it and it wasn’t gross at all (she was right) but I found it visually strong and uncomfortable viewing.
After a few hours of that, both of us squirming on our beds with oestrogen clouding the room we decided to hit the town. I’d done my research and discovered a club that had a retro room with 70s, 80s and 90s cheesy pop. The club was huge and L and I were clearly the tourists. Though neither of us could ever be described as unattractive we were missing the ‘Swedish porn vibe’. In fact it was all going horribly wrong because the club seemed to be all dance music. We sat there, two little cute tubbies, lost in a mass of towering long legged svelte blonde women. We must’ve had faces like slapped arses because eventually a beefcake came over and asked what was wrong. Rather curtly L said, ‘we were told this place played old pop music.’ The lovely man pointed and said ‘maybe try over there in the pop room.’ We were so used to the Norbury nightclub with its one floor, L and I had no concept of night clubs having different rooms with different music in them. Joyfully we bounced in there and as ‘Love Really Hurts Without You’ came on got lost in the dance and the drink.
We did attract some guys. The first two men to approach weren’t so traditionally Swedish in our idealised eyes. One was phenomenally good looking but short – shorter than L so I’m thinking 5’2 – maybe taller as she’d have had heels on but still short. The other was pleasant looking but I wondered if maybe he was visiting from Norway because I wasn’t getting a massive wetness in my knickers.
Eventually another two came up. One was Mr Personality – again pleasant looking and good company but not the highest standard looks-wise. His friend however. Oh my lord it was like he’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. He wasn’t blonde but he was tall, slim, broad, dark curtained hair, chiselled features and he took my breath away. I was envious knowing L would score with him. I’d get the character but she would get the looks – that’s how it always seemed to work in my eyes.
When Mr Personality asked for a dance I nodded enthusiastically. I went to him, arms ready to wrap round my neck and rather embarrassingly he stepped back quickly and said ‘no – with my friend.’ He literally shoved me into his male model friend and it was a moment I will never forget. What an achievement. The downside was he was probably the only Swede that didn’t speak perfect English. He barely knew English but I was in heaven for the duration of the dance. L later commented how sweet it was that I had been looking up at him all gooey eyed and sung Take That’s ‘Back For Good’ at him. The club closed and they invited us on but the spell was broken.
If I’m honest and I may be off base, I felt L was a little reluctant to allow herself to be courted by Mr Personality for the evening and perhaps put out that it was the male model that had squeezed me so tight on the dance floor. Thus the evening reached a natural conclusion and we went home in the early hours of Saturday morning.
I had been in contact with Abba’s Benny and Bjorn’s studio and had a very nice email giving me details as to where it was. Not one to waste a tourist opportunity I had booked L and I on a sightseeing tour of Stockholm, planning to jump off at the studio on the off chance my heroes may be there. It didn’t work out so well. L and I got on the bus, next to the window, decided to put our heads on the table for a little rest and were woken up four hours later by some angry fellow passengers saying the tour had ended and tutting that we would waste the window seats everyone seemed to want.
Handily McDonald’s was across from our hotel so we grabbed a few meals for lunch and headed back to our room for an afternoon of porn. It was compulsive, even though the movies were on rotation we stayed glued to the screen. So compelling was it that when we realised it was dinner time we rang McDonald’s across the road and ordered room service so we could continue our porn marathon. As evening turned into late night and our hormones were in overdrive we both decided we wanted sex that night and needed to go out.
We got dressed and after taking a few saucy photos of each other (one I really need a copy of because I myself look like a plus-size porn model) went back to the one club we knew in Stockholm.
There had been significant discussion regarding sex in a room with twin beds. At one point we thought of dragging a mattress into the bathroom so we could have privacy but felt so much preparation may jinx our intention of getting laid so decided to play it by ear.
Our beaus from the previous night weren’t there but the initial two (Short & beautiful and Norwegian pleasant) were. At this point it was pretty much an equal match. L’s had the looks but being vertical challenge did impact on his appeal, mine was nice looking and normal but nothing to write home about. So we spent the evening with them. For the first time ever when the club closed we begged them to take us onwards. I wanted to go to a thump-thump-thump dance club. The kind you see in Ibiza movies with laser lights, podiums and a mad throng of people dancing. Polite and happy to play tour guides the boys took us to one of those very clubs. I hated the music but I loved that we were in a club open till 9am for the very first time.
But sex was on our minds and the music wasn’t to our taste so we invited the boys back to our hotel to drink the ‘champagne’.
I would’ve thought an invite back to a hotel room was evident of what we were after but seemingly not. As we crashed into our hotel room it didn’t become an orgy but a very civilized affair. The champagne was supped and merry as we all were conversation flowed but not in any sexual way. L and I were desperate and thought we’d ‘put the TV on’ to help the atmosphere. Thus we ‘accidentally’ found ourselves on the porn channel. The boys remained clueless; as if it hadn’t been a deliberate mistake. Perhaps we were better actresses than we thought or perhaps they were masters at playing hard to get. We exchanged glances as to what other options were available to get things moving but were unable to telepathically come up with anything creative.
By now the boys, having told us they were in National Service together, were fooling around and rough housing on the twin beds that had been pushed together. The fell between the crevice, laughing and grappling. It was all a bit homo-erotic; like they were having a sex party in our room and we weren’t invited.
The only solution that came to mind was just to say we were tired and going to bed and they could join us if they wanted.
And they did want.
This immediately posed the privacy problem – I knew we should’ve put that mattress in the bathroom.
Lights off was easy enough but made for guaranteed fumbling. We tried to find a music channel on the TV to at least muffle whispering but the music was highly inappropriate – it seems at 6am Swedish folk and skiffle music is the choice of radio broadcasters which isn’t conducive to cocks being invited to enter vagina’s.
The first difficulty were the beds were too close. Within the beds it went L’s man, L, me and my man. L and I were so close our flesh was brushing and we were getting a fit of the giggles. When my man was groping in the dark his hand was grabbing L’s thigh, which sparked a squeal from her and an embarrassed retraction from him.
The second difficulty was both the guys had consumed excess alcohol and I suspect weren’t physically in a position to deliver the shafting we were both so desperate for. L wasn’t quite as sluttish as I. Drunk and up for a good time she doesn’t include her Mr Sweden in her official numbers because it slipped in and then slipped out. According to her ‘Slutty Value System’ one thrust and / or an entry of less 5 seconds doesn’t constitute a sexual encounter.
I on the other hand was as persistent as ever. My insecurities got the better of me and I was concerned he just wasn’t that into me. Any kind of sexual or physical rejection is too much for me so I worked his cock as best I could but it was like an air mattress with a leak. As soon as I got it hard and I let go to position myself for entry, all too soon it would deflate, slip out and I’d have to go through the entire process again. Whether he did it out of sympathy, obligation or a genuine desire to try and sexually pleasure me he began fingering me. If I’m honest this kind of sexual activity I find pleasing. It’s just that he was lazily using one finger – which is like a slim line tampon. I’m all about the girth so found myself instructing him on what to do to please me. The first instruction being ‘two fingers’. So there was foreplay and eventually some barely conscious pumping and then sleep for both us; him sliding out as our eyelids closed.
They left a few hours later. Civil, polite, friendly but without any real warmth nor indication whether their night in our hotel would be one they told friends about, one they had as pleasant memory of sex and youth or one they never wanted to repeat.
It was disappointing for me on the grounds that I’d spent so much time researching ejaculation and what to do with cum when it….comes….to not have had the climax to conclude our weekend in Sweden seemed a little unfair.
The only person who walked away better informed on my sex life and how to pleasure me was L who found it necessary, after being seated at the breakfast buffet, to utter just five words to mortify and embarrass me for life – ‘Two fingers is best then?’